


Are You Watching Closely?

by overcastkid, pavloverly



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-24
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-10-10 01:24:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10426125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overcastkid/pseuds/overcastkid, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavloverly/pseuds/pavloverly
Summary: Your (he)art is being controlled.Pete couldn’t sleep. When he doesn’t sleep, he thinks. And thinking too much in a claustrophobic bunk, all alone, is a bad thing for a brain built like a nomad. So being a natural given, he was inclined to gravitate towards Patrick’s bunk when he felt sad. And that’s just what he did.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pavloverly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pavloverly/gifts).



Pete inhaled sharply, trying to muffle his sobs into the thin material of his bed covers. He had decided a little over an hour ago that he would give up on the whole ‘try to trick myself to fall asleep’ act. He felt absolutely miserable.

He had been thinking, and he had thought too much. Had thought about all his self pity, and he had thought about overdosing on his half-moon pills. Amidst all his troubles, he decided to get up, still sniffling, and walked over to Patrick’s bunk.  
He climbed into his friend’s bunk and cuddled up to Patrick’s back. The younger’s deep breaths were a stark contrast to Pete’s sharp in-out breathing. He felt like the world were going to collapse and that it would be all his fault.

Spooning in closer to Patrick’s warmth, Pete had calmed down, although not by much. His heart rate picked up when he realised Patrick’s breathing was becoming shallower. Patrick shifted in his arms and turned into an awkward position to face Pete.

“Hey,” Patrick said, voice groggy with sleep. When he was more alert, he noticed Pete’s tear-stricken face and puffy eyes. “Pete, what’s wrong?” He asked, moving an inch closer.

Pete started crying and moved forward into Patrick’s warmth, burying his face into his neck with tears streaming down his face.

Patrick tucked his arm under Pete's head, nuzzling his nose into Pete's hair. “Come on, Pete. Don't shut your thoughts away. You know that only makes it worse,” he whispered, voice gentle and familiar. But Pete didn't respond with more than a loud sob, tears soaking into Patrick's skin. And Patrick tried to understand what Pete was thinking through his tears, tried to decipher his sobs into metaphors and metaphors into feelings. But nothing came, so he tried again.

“Pete,” he said, “tell me what's wrong.” Patrick used his other hand to run down Pete's arm with his calloused fingertips. Pete whimpered into Patrick's neck, warm but erratic breaths soaking into his skin. “Pete.” He tried again, this time a little deeper, more persistent.

The boy in his arms continued to cry in muffled silence, shaking profusely  
and worrying the fabric of Patrick's shirt in between his fingertips.

It's not like Pete didn’t have an easy time talking to Patrick, it was the last thing he wanted. But every syllable he tried to speak got caught in the barrier between his thoughts and reality, escaping as a short cry. He tried to communicate in whimpers and whines, because the words he wished to scream into the cold air of _whatever_ city they were in now wanted to be held back by some unnamed force his head created. Pete knew Patrick couldn't read his mind, not so clouded up like it was.

So he let out a small _please help me_ which came out in the usual gibberish, soaked into a cotton shirt for years, memories of this never being washed away. _It's been so long since it's been this bad, you're my last hope_ , he kept trying.

“ _Please_ ,” Pete grunted out, sharp intake of breath following his rasped voice. His head pounded, like the simple pass between that barrier was the first shot, and the casualties of the war were adding up. His side was losing. Pete gulped, throat dry.

Patrick was doing his best to hold Pete together, just like he did after all these years. But it was hard to keep a bomb from going off when the wires are inside. So he just held, taking Pete's wrist in his hand and squeezing, other hand now migrated to his back. “Come on, Pete,” Patrick whispered again, “Don't think I can't make you talk. If you're getting bad again, you know…”

Pete didn't reply, rolling Patrick onto his back and clinging onto him. Patrick rubbed short circles into Pete's back. He struggled to breathe in Pete's complete _octopus hold_ but after years of this, he decided, he supposed it might've helped him become a better singer, so that was a plus.

Patrick leaned in to Pete’s grip, wrapping his other arm around him, leaning in towards his face and brushing his lips over his temple. “You can tell me anything. When you’re ready,” he whispered, holding Pete just that little bit tighter, “you can tell me what’s wrong or tell me what I can give you and I’ll help. I always try to, and you know that, Pete.”

Pete went slack and mumbled against Patrick’s jaw, incoherent and too quick for the younger to catch. Patrick reverted back to rubbing circles on Pete’s back, trying to soothe him further. This was a new side to Pete that his friend had never seen before, unguarded and uncaring about who would see. He would build walls around others if they tried to pry him open and ask him to share his problems. They would expect Pete to open up and run his mouth, letting all his problems ebb out of his words, but Pete would only fixate on nothing and go silent. Patrick decided that it would normally be best not to ask, however this time it was an exception. Pete had asked for his help, had come to Patrick for it without being prompted to.

Patrick snaked his hand back to his side, lifting Pete’s jaw up so he could look him directly in the eyes. Pete looked dejected, and Patrick wanted to make him feel better, to stop Pete from hurting. Recalling that Pete had tried to communicate with Patrick earlier, in the form of rushed words pressed into Patrick’s skin, Patrick looked Pete directly in the eyes and asked, “You know how I asked what you needed before? What did you say?”

Pete drops his gaze to Patrick’s lips and takes a shuddering breath, trying to calm himself. “You. I want you, and I always have.” A fresh wave of tears overcome Pete, as he lets out another choked sob and tries to bring himself closer to Patrick, burying his face there and mouthing at Patrick’s pulse (which, mind you, was beating erratically).

Patrick inhaled sharply, tilting his neck up on instinct. “Pete,” he breathed out, “you don't mean that, you're just upset, c’mon, hey.” And as Pete's tears slipped out, Patrick suddenly wasn't too sure if he did mean it. Of course, Pete had always mentioned being more than friends. And anyone within a mile of the two together could tell you that Pete Wentz was always in love with Patrick Stump. Maybe it always felt that way, but never in private. He was never so open to this alone. Patrick exhaled shakily, hand moving up to card through Pete's hair.

“Wrong. You're so _wrong_ ,” Pete stated, voice cracking on the last. He clung to Patrick like a lifeline, but maybe that's exactly what he was.

“Pete-” Patrick cut off with a short gasp, feeling Pete's teeth scrape gently against his neck, his heart-rate speeding up even more. There's no way Pete couldn't feel him shaking. Whether or not it was from fear or the fact that every feeling he'd denied in the past rushing in all at once, he'd never know. Maybe it was a mixture of both.

“Need. Need you,” Pete whispered against his neck, “always needed you, wanted you.” He paused a moment, waiting for reaction, and when he didn't get one, he just clung tighter and pressed his lips to Patrick's adam’s apple. And Patrick let him.

Maybe it's a fact that this is something that made his skin buzz underneath the layers, or maybe it's the sudden want to feel something more than emptiness. But he was going to have it. Pete needed to have this.

“You need to tell me,” Patrick sighed out, talking to Pete but facing the top of the bunk, “tell me that you mean it. Not these rushed out, broken words and syllables Pete. This isn't a fucking thing that you can say you need in the heat of the moment and not talk to me for weeks. It's not.” He winced at the harshness of his tone, but he kept himself composed. His hands rested on Pete's back. _Keep him from floating away_. Words to live by.

Pete crawled up, planting his forearms on the pillow on either side of Patrick's head. He slumped ungracefully, mostly lying on the body under him, but enough to keep their faces apart so he could speak.

“ _Please_ ,” He muttered, “you don't—you don't know how much I've wanted to ask you for something like this, how _long_ I've fucking needed you. Help me.” _You're the only person who can help_.

Patrick sighed, clearing his throat and closing his eyes. This was risky for him. He didn't know how far Pete wanted him to go. Of course, Pete had tried. He'd woken up plenty of times with the dark-haired boy tucked in behind him, kissing his neck and half-hard pressed against him. But he'd never _asked_. It never felt this desperate.

“Tell me what to do,” he said cautiously, completely aware of the pair of hazel eyes watching him. _I can help, but guide me so I don't make a mistake. I don't think you can be any more broken, I'm not taking chances._

Pete's actions launched almost immediately, leaning down to press their lips together.

In all the movies they say that a kiss with your true lover can make you feel fireworks. But those people, they don't have a bunch of cheap duds stuck in their head overlapping the big show like Pete did. So while some may feel fireworks, Pete felt his own sparklers light and macerate. And that was good enough for him.

Patrick kissed back lazily, still sleep-hazed. He held Pete in place, keeping him slow even though he knew Pete was desperate. But, Patrick was going to do this correctly, and give him time to back out if he decided to. They'd kissed before, a few times. But that was mostly Pete's doing, on a high from the crowd that night and uncontrollable with his actions. There was never this much tension lingering.

He was trying to ignore Pete's rutting against him, one thigh in between both of his. _Trying_ was really the key word there, and the pact he had made to himself to _never fall in love with_ Pete decomposed at rapid speed as he felt himself starting to follow the rhythm.

“It helps,” Pete let the kiss break naturally, talking against Patrick's lips. He was panting, not even bothering to hold himself up anymore.

“This helps?”

“You help.”

“I help?”

“Just keep going.”

And Patrick did.

-

After multiple minutes of languid but fluent kissing, Patrick sitting up as much as he could in the bunk (“ _No, Pete, fuck you, I’m gonna hit my head like that, get me those other pillows_.”) and Pete sitting in his lap, the latter was starting to grow restless again. He pulled away, kissing down Patrick's jaw open-mouthed, grinding down against his hips more harshly. Patrick hummed contently, keeping his hands steady on bare hips. He could feel Pete’s skin burning with anticipation, light fingertips on harsh edges.

“Want more,” Pete said, he wasn't asking.

“Tell me what you need,” Patrick whispered back.

“Tired of telling. Just do what you think will help.”

The calloused fingers of Patrick's hands slid down, tucking under the elastic of Pete's boxers. He knew he wanted it. Knew Pete needed it. But he was gentle, slow, and he made sure Pete was okay with everything before he made a wrong move. Pete's chest heaved as he sat up straighter, looking down to watch Patrick's hands, and then back up at the concentration going on in the look he was making.

“Stop worrying. Just-” Pete stuttered, “just maybe it’d help if you- maybe just-...how about you- I don’t fucking know! You do something!” Tears started filling Pete’s eyes again, frustrated at the situation.  
Patrick looked straight, towards Pete's chest, avoiding all eye contact completely, but with a soft worried expression. Pete whined slightly, shifting his body slightly, trying to get Patrick to move again.

“That's what you want,” Patrick sighed, tilting his head up and plastering a smirk on his face, ”then that's what you get. But you need to tell me what’s too far.”

Pete could tell by the look on his face that his demeanor had changed immediately. If he knew it'd been that easy he’d have said that when he first snuggled up behind Patrick. He held his hands on Patrick's shoulders, and Patrick took the time to move Pete on his back in a swift motion, causing a soft moan to erupt from the latter. Pete tried to wrap his legs around the younger boy's hips, but he wasn't having it. He pressed his thumbs down on Pete's hipbones to keep his frame pressed to the thin bunk mattress, and his lips ghosted over Pete's collarbone.

“I haven't done any of this this in a while,” Patrick whispered, digging his nails into Pete's flesh as Pete squirmed for friction. The older boy whimpered in response, arching his back as Patrick moved his lips to suck on the tanned skin. “Haven't had someone wanting me like this. Really, nobody’s ever wanted me this desperately like you have.”

Pete sighed, closing his eyes and letting his nails scrape down pale skin as he felt Patrick shift himself down. “‘Trick,” Pete carded his fingers through Patrick's hair as the younger boy kissed down his stomach, gripping harshly and attempting to buck his hips when he started mouthing near the waistband of his boxers. He could feel the heat radiating off of Patrick, who now was making a harsh, dark bruise in the thin skin covering his hipbones. His brain was still racing, thick fog of thoughts, but now it was coated with the sweet rain that could only be described as _PatrickPatrickPatrick_. And he was surprised that it was his own voice moaning and toes curling when Patrick pulled down his boxers a tad, letting his tongue snake over the sensitive imprints left by the elastic.

Patrick flicked his gaze up, looking at Pete's head laid back and hair messed to hell. His eyes were shot with lust with undertones of desperate intentions and there were dried tear tracks still moderately visible in the dim lighting.  
If anyone asked him, Patrick would say it was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. But he didn't want the tension Pete had hidden behind it. He didn't want his “whatever-the-fuck-this-makes-us” needing this just when he was ten seconds away from shoving a handful of pills into his hand and writing his name on a bullet. He wanted to help.

 _He needs you to make him stop thinking_ , Patrick's inner conscience rang in his ears, _give him what he needs_.

With that thought guiding him, he pulled down the fabric of Pete's boxers roughly, to which Pete happily obliged. He laid naked and sprawled beneath Patrick, and the latter lowered his head down again. His plump lips peppered along Pete's thighs, teeth reaching out to nip softly. Patrick's hands migrated to hold Pete's thighs up and letting them rest on his shoulders. He looked up one last time, before inhaling and sealing his mouth over the tip of Pete's cock.

Pete's brain automatically short-circuited, fingers gripping tighter into red-blonde locks. His heels dug into Patrick's shoulder blades, and he rasped out a groan. Patrick closed his eyes, slowly and agonizingly lowering his mouth down.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Pete keened, hips sliding up on instinct into the wet-heat of Patrick's lips. Patrick looked up, pulling away immediately with a soft _pop!_ and letting his breath ghost over the base of Pete's dick, hands pushing down sharp angled hips. Pete mewled, chasing the feeling again.

“I don't like getting my mouth fucked,” Patrick stated, growl partially evident in his voice, “and if you wanted me to control this, you're definitely not on terms with the fact that I'm the one doing it, not you leading me into something more. Don't fucking move.”

The older boy inhaled sharply at the rough tone, nodding softly in contrast. Patrick swiped his tongue gently, perfectly straight, from base to head. Pete's half-choked sobs, muffled by his own fist, were a distant noise in his ears as he tried to focus. Patrick could feel Pete’s thighs shaking and complete intensity inflamed in the muscles of his stomach.  
Patrick genuinely hoped that Pete didn’t see this as a one-timer, because the feeling of him begging for his attention was something he could definitely get used to.

He dipped his tongue into the slit of Pete's cock, pleased with the whine in reaction. So he did it again, and again, and again, watching Pete's eyes screw shut. Patrick hummed, finally swallowing down again, hollowing his cheeks. Pete was obviously on edge, the steady noise of simply _Patrick_ continuing to ring through his head like wind chimes in a hurricane. His hands grasped the thin, cheap bunk blanket, and he prayed to every god that might exist that Patrick kept doing that thing with his fucking _tongue_.

Although Patrick always said he was straight to the camera and anyone who may be watching, he had experience, believe it or not. He was born with a mouth crafted with golden hands, and he decided to put it to good use.

He’d never admit how he earned the money to buy his first Fender.

So now, here he is, nose nuzzling into Pete’s tanned skin, one hand holding his hips down in case of any more possible slip-ups and another teasing downward. Pete spread his legs slightly, in a case of trying to get more comfortable or a case of trying to move without Patrick noticing. He let it slide, it'd be easier in the long run.

A thin sheen of sweat shone over the lines of Pete's body, seemingly highlighting the sharp edges in the light. He was in a state of bliss around the perimeter of his head. He could feel the fog fading, slowly but surely. The recognizable peace poking at the dark parts. His team was winning because they called for backup in the form of Patrick. His voice caught in his throat when he felt a single callused fingertip rub against his hole, galvanizing him completely. The darker skinned boy stared aimlessly at the bunk light, mouth agape and panting.

“C’mon,” Pete choked out, looking down, “give me something, please.” Patrick hummed lightly, replacing his mouth with his hand on Pete’s dick, smirking up to the older man.

“You’re fuckin’ greedy,” he smiled, “but okay.” Patrick tilted his head down again, mouthing down over Pete’s balls, causing a soft groan from the older man. He loved the way Pete was begging for him like this, the way his skin warmed in the palm of his hand, and the comfortable feeling of it all. Patrick hoped he could do this again but without the harsh demeanor. He knew Pete needed it, but he wanted to take his time.

“Ah, fuck, hey what’re you-..oh,” Pete’s voice cracked on the one syllable. The sensation of _warmwetfuckinghell_ stood out like a sore thumb in between it all; Patrick’s tongue playing him as well as Patrick played every instrument he put his hands on. That’s what Pete was right now. A guitar, a keyboard, a drum set, anything you could think of. Patrick treated Pete the same way he would any instrument. Carefully, steady, never in his right mind or wrong mind would he think of breaking it. But perfectly at the same time. Although, he probably plays his instruments with a little less tongue.

Pete’s there with legs raised, one in a position where the bend of his knee resting on Patrick’s shoulder, and he pants out soft noises. He wasn’t ever one for stuff like this with anyone, (Gabe tried to finger him once during a blowjob, long story short, there were tears and a black eye) but with Patrick it was a whole new experience. He was softer, more languid. Patrick wasn’t a quick fuck during a party hoping nobody would open the bathroom door with a conveniently broken lock. He was the steady base holding Pete together. The stitches to his wounds. It seems oddly poetic for someone who’s mouth is in between Pete’s ass cheeks, but it still applies.

And, of course, Pete felt like he was going to combust, he hadn’t felt this much pleasure in a long time. Patrick knows all the right places to touch and all the buttons to push. He cried out a little louder than he probably should on a tour bus, but Patrick doesn’t scold him. He only encouraged Pete farther, spreading his legs for better access and easing the tip of his finger into Pete alongside his tongue. This sparked a new reaction from Pete. A sudden tense pause, but then rocking down against it as he realized what was going on.

“Oh my god, fuck me,” he whispered, droplets prying at his tear ducts. Patrick could feel Pete going out of focus, slipping from him. His brain capacity was being used for this situation and nothing else. He was barely speaking anymore. Pete was hardly moving except for the soft rocking of his hips and the way his bones were shaking. Patrick was okay with that. It meant progress.

Patrick crooked his finger slightly when he was up to the hilt, dragging it out slowly and then pushing it back in. Pete moaned softly, a sound of vanquish for Patrick. He closed his eyes and continued to stretch Pete out; a combination of mouth and hands. Pete was holding his breath by now, Patrick could tell. His chest had stopped rising and falling like choppy ocean waves, and instead his eyes were screwed shut. His eyebrows were knitted together, and his mouth was parted slightly. He was trying to focus.

Like when Pete couldn’t get the bassline right no matter how many times Patrick redirected his fingers, or when he couldn’t hum the melody along properly because he wasn’t gifted with the power of musical talent. Focused like he hadn’t slept for days and had an exclusive radio interview. He couldn’t fuck up.

Patrick lined up a second finger alongside his first, crossing them and inserting slowly. He didn’t ask Pete if he wanted another one, but he didn’t need to. The arch of Pete’s back and the subtle-but-meaningful gasp that escaped his lips was good enough consent. There was no words for the grace and beauty that Pete was at this moment. His heart was thumping against his chest. The sheen of sweat highlighting the ups and downs of every road across Pete’s body that Patrick would walk along for hours if it was real. There was not a reality here.

Perception got the best of them as their bodies moved in unison. Suicidal glances across the airport versus heads in laps on tour bus couches. They both knew this was coming, somehow, but they never mentioned it. Pete sighed softly with his hair glued to his forehead, panting in time to Patrick’s fingers, like a metronome. Patrick knew he couldn’t keep up the tough guy act with how emotionally driven the atmosphere was. So, he looked down at his own actions to stifle his ongoing rage of how this was the reason it happened.

“Please,” Pete croaked out, almost a whisper. In a brief sentence, you could say he was in a heaven-based penitentiary. Or a hellbound euphoria. A catch-22 surrounding Pete’s life or death mindset, but was one of the best feelings of his life. Some sort of counterproductive therapy. “It feels so good, Patrick. I’m begging you, please.”

Patrick nodded, involuntarily encouraging Pete. The more he knew for certain the older boy under him enjoyed it, the more his worries went up in smoke behind the unknown consequences that’d follow. It was the sparks that fueled the flame behind Patrick’s nervous system, encouraging him to _go ahead, go faster._ He was never good at listening to Pete, but maybe this time he was listening to himself. Patrick was tired of bouncing around the idea of admitting to himself that he wanted something more.

He gave Pete more, a lot more. The warm heat of his mouth enclosing over Pete’s cock again, drool sliding down Patrick’s chin. He went from two fingers to three in a heartbeat, not even looking at Pete for approval. He didn’t need to. It was rhythmic. It was a lonesome bass drum in a studio.

Whipped underneath the warmth of a cold stare, and sitting upon the thrones of excitement, the two were a pair in this nonetheless. Pete writhing like a needy animal; it was quite embarrassing for him, actually. If he knew he was sitting there, eyes half closed and sweat dripping down his forehead with a death wish if Patrick _doesn’t shove his cock in him right now,_ he’d never let anyone see his face in the light again. He’d left the dark pools around his eyes behind, focusing on the way his veins felt like subway trails in New York City. He’d never set foot in public, he’d only let Patrick stare at him like he always does. Sincere but challenging, it was their worst time.

Overall, it was enlightening to feel the tension leave Pete’s tempered skin, even if Patrick wasn’t ready for the aftermath. And as he slowly maneuvered his fingers, listening to Pete chant and move and _need,_ he began to understand him a little more. But it wasn’t enough. If Patrick stopped now, it would be a lost cause. It was a miracle that he kept himself calm this long, but the thought of what he needed to do made his heart thump steadily in his chest, overriding his train of thought. Pumping his fingers in and out to the time of his breaths, removing his other hand from Pete’s skin to brace the cold but too hot atmosphere of the bunk. He sputtered out a moan when his own hand grazed the hot skin of his cock beneath his boxers. Patrick hadn’t even realized how hard he’d been up to that point, but Pete took it into account and attempted to reach his hand out. His fingers were met with a firm slap, pushing his hand away accompanied by a subtle glare.

“I’ll decide when you get to touch my dick, Pete,” Patrick smiled, caressing his thoughts. The only thing that followed was a short whimper, which caused Patrick to begin to run his hand across his own dick again. It really wouldn’t last long after this point. “But first, I really need lube.” He didn’t want to interrupt the situation at all, but in this case, it was necessary. Pete shuddered as Patrick removed his fingers, leaving him empty. He lay down, staring at Patrick, and exhaled, “It’s in the bag behind you, in the front pocket.”

Patrick chuckled at the nonchalant break in the tension, grabbing the travel sized bottle and holding it up, looking at Pete, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Pete looked doubtful, his eyes staring holes into Patrick’s gaze, almost in fear, “Of course, please.” There it was, slipping back into a state of seriousness. Patrick steadied his hand on Pete’s thigh, watching him as he pushed his boxers down, wrapping his hand around his own cock and panting softly. Pete just watched attentively, bottom lip drawn between his lip to concentrate on the pleasure in Patrick’s eyes. It brought warmth to his cheeks, like he was suddenly embarrassed. There was a low static still sizzling under his chest.

_Want._

He caught himself squirming, wishing Patrick would fuck him at the same pace he was pumping his cock between his fingers. For some reason, Pete didn’t actually think about Patrick being hard. But now that he knew that it wasn’t just Patrick trying to coax him into not being sad, it made him feel more elated than before. They both wanted it. Maybe they just weren’t prepared for it until now. Maybe they weren’t even prepared for it now.

Patrick gripped harder on Pete’s thigh, letting his body fill up with pleasure as if it was replacement for his blood. “God, I want to fuck you so bad,” he broke the silence, “I’m going to fuck you, okay?” Pete was shocked out of his attentive stare, and nodded softly, gasping at the thought. He was too busy focusing on the way Patrick stroked himself, wanting to learn the way he liked it in case anything further happened in the future. God, he hoped there’d be a future.

The way Patrick splattered lube across his cock brought him out of that thought process, causing him to just think about the task at hand. Was this actually about to happen? He might not even want to think about that, not wanting to psych himself out. But once Patrick cooed “It’s alright,” along with the feeling of lube drenching his ass, that “psyched out” bit flew out the window.

“I need you to relax,” Patrick inched himself closer, a steady hand trailed from the base of Pete’s thigh to trace the lines of his hipbones reassuringly. He pressed the head of his cock up to Pete’s asshole, watching his expression and listening to the thin sheets rustle as his toes curled.

_Okay, Pete would be lying if he said he expected it to hurt as much as it did._

Pete cried out in an exasperated breath, being tugged out of his body like the tears forming pools at his eyes. He gripped the sheets, jaw bouncing as his entire _being_ convulsed at the feeling. It was accompanied by Patrick’s soft voice, soothing him as he pushed further in. It fucking _hurt._ His eyes were screwed shut, and he attempted to relax his body.

“It’s alright,” Patrick wiped sweat off Pete’s forehead and repeated in a low voice, breathy and raspy as if all his self control was built into this moment. It felt amazing for him, but Pete hadn’t gotten used to it yet, and he really wasn’t sure how long this would last. “I’m fine, I can take it,” Pete breathed in a whisper with tears rolling down his cheeks once again, stinging his eyes and taking his hand to hold Patrick’s. He felt exposed, embarrassed even, but he wasn’t crying over his manic episode this time. It felt cheap almost, like he was being used, and he really would think that if he didn’t watch the sincere pools of the earth focus on him from underneath Patrick’s eyelids as they had a million times before when there wasn’t any other word to say.

However, oddly enough, Pete’s dick was still hard and he wasn’t broken. Maybe he was a masochist at heart, although it was probably due to the fact that they were on tour and he hadn’t gotten any action in over a month, let alone any action _ever_ from his best friend, who was the physical being of his own personal wet dreams. It took him a hot minute to get used to it; squirming but dangerously still. The numbing pain died down and now it was just an obtruding feeling, and it felt even more so when Patrick began to slowly pull out.

Pete knew Patrick _liked_ it because he groaned like a teenager, causing Pete to clench around him. Due to pure obscurity of Pete’s brain, he was now lying in a messy, tight bunk with his friends dick in his ass, and _getting off to it._ It was an oddity that he’d never thought would come from one of his emotional trips, but it felt so fucking good. Pete was letting himself enjoy it, although it was slow and he could tell Patrick was tensed beyond belief at the motive it’d have to take for him to not come. But it was reassuring, knowing that Patrick was into this for the long run and actually trying to bring pleasure into it for the both of them. There were no boundaries passed here, it was for pure enjoyment and a synthetic version of therapy.

Pete would’ve been ashamed if he wasn’t Pete, shamelessly attempting to rock down against Patrick’s dick and panting. It was amplified euphoria, watching glowing white blank-canvas skin against harsh tan fields of curvatures. The sweat and heat, the messiness, the physical oxymoron of themselves. All combined into one event, causing the fog in Pete’s neuroticism to fade softly, replaced by the light of his life. It really wasn’t going to last long at this point.

Patrick was picking up pace, causing Pete’s toes to curl up in the cheap set of sheets. His mouth was open as he licked his lips, a satyric sight in itself. Pete could probably come just from seeing that long enough. To fuel the fire, Patrick moved one hand to meet the bed above Pete’s “unloveable” tattoo, staring directly into his honey coated eyes. Pete was helpless here, letting the younger boy use him and overtake him with pleasure in sight and touch.

To be honest, he’d lost track and gone blank. He didn’t realize the spiral of pleasure forming in his lower half until Patrick was going _deeper,_ and was that his hand on Pete’s cock? There was no registration of needing to come so bad until Patrick whispered, “Not yet,” in his ear and wrapped his index finger and thumb around the base, with his lips pressed flat against the curves around his neck. It was sudden, and Patrick was getting desperate with his hips. It was excruciatingly difficult for him to stay quiet, and he didn’t. Luckily, they had this bus to themselves. Patrick could read him like a book. The sensation of Pete tight-hot around him, surrounded by his scent and the way his skin always felt too cold, even now. But right now, he was in control. He could hear the older boys pulse through his skin underneath the moans and weighted breaths.

It was combination of Patrick’s hoarse, “Now,” with his thumb beginning to move along the veins of Pete’s cock, and the feeling of warm, thick liquid spreading inside of him that tipped Pete over. They groaned in unison and hitched their breaths together, with hot cum dripping out of Pete’s cock and all over Patrick’s hand. He was moaning, twitching, overwhelmed with every sense around him. It was like he was having an orgasm for the first time in his life, an out of body experience.

He was shocked out of his post-orgasm trance when Patrick winced as he pulled out. Pete lay domineering to the situation, sweat caked over him with cum dripping out of him and cooling on his stomach. His eyes were glazed over with the sight of Patrick gazing at him admirably imprinted on his iris. All of a sudden, he could feel everything. The tense soreness in his pelvis to the warm steady feeling in his lower stomach (and his heart.) The only thing he could focus on was the look on Patrick’s face, and now the feeling of himself being cleaned up with a few tissues he must’ve had in the travel bag.

The next thing he registered was Patrick’s scent, the sweet soft skin, and his face buried in cotton. He was protected. He didn’t want to think of anything other than this, a god-given epiphany wrapped around him like a shield from the melancholy feelings. It was a hand wrapped in his hoodie, the pressure of sheer love and affection holding him to Patrick. It wasn’t a game. All he could focus on was Patrick. The dim mood was gone.

“‘Love you,” Patrick murmured in Pete’s sweat soaked hair, like they were his last words. It was endearing, and he clung on tighter. Pete didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. Patrick knew already, and it was enough baring all his feelings tonight. Instead, Pete focused on Patrick’s heartbeat. It felt like a song you’d sing to a kid to drift them to sleep. Rhythmic and catchy, stuck in your head for years to come. He always lived to this beat since the first time he heard it. With his lifeline curled up around him, and his worries diminished, he let himself drift off.

The sky was clear; the fireworks were blooming.

-

The freshly waxed floors and the smell of a food court bumbled in the four men’s senses, familiar. Their bags had been taken, they had a few minutes to themselves. Andy went to grab a water from the vending machine, and Joe was eating a fresh burrito while listening to music on his phone; absent from the world. Pete was bubbly, tugging Patrick to look at the cute plushies they placed strategically in the window of a small shop. A week ago, Patrick woke up with a sleep-warm-but-still-cold Pete in his arms, snoring and curled around him.It was since then that Pete had been exclusively broken out of the spell he was under, smiling up at him exposed in the dim light coming from the bunk window. He'd been closer, he’d been livelier.

And now he was cooing over Patrick's shoulder as he watched the younger boy hand his credit card over in exchange for a stuffed monkey.

There was no introduction, no talk about what it was. No awkward small talk. It wasn't needed. The sun was shining, no clouds amongst the clear blue. It was suffocatingly perfect, and it felt close. Pete followed him, not trying to avoid it.

And Joe wouldn't normally take a second glance when Pete sat abnormally close next to Patrick on the airport bench, but the soft peck on the neck followed by an equally diligent smile made him do a double take. But he didn't question it, didn't say a word. And neither did Andy. Instead, they let it go unspoken.

Pete stared into the eyes of the man next to him, the amalgamation of colors might as well had taken the place of stars. He felt home. He felt okay. He felt clear.

He felt in love.

fin

**Author's Note:**

> well, i'll be it. 
> 
> start date: a messy skype call that lasted for hours on december 17th, 2015
> 
> end date: a long night of being sick and unable to sleep, march 24th, 2017
> 
> a 6.5k work wouldn't take that long for most, but between loss of motivation and unable to find a continuation for the story it's finally finished. it's the first real fic i've ever written. i hope you enjoy. 'specially kella.
> 
> lw.


End file.
